


Come Down

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Study, Demons, Family Dynamics, First Meetings, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Relationship Study, bangs head, bro i write 4 pages of this and its only 1k, written at 4am :D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27557944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The natural order of the universe worked as followed:Angels in Heaven.Mythicals on Earth.Demons, to rot in Hell.Stars and butterflies and dreams all equate to trash when you live in hell.Sometimes kings can't afford to keep that crown on their head when reality strikes. And perhaps they're not alone in their thinking... perhaps the stars align and those same circumstances happen to other people.But thats okay. No matter how beautiful, vivid, or unique a butterfly is, it's no doubt just how delicate it is in the palm of a true ruler.Blue Sonder AU.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75
Collections: Anonymous, Blue Sonder AU





	1. They Met in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm posting this anonymously because I'm a pussy, I know. If anyone is seeing this, pog and please leave a review? I want to try writing some little oneshots of head-cannons I have for this AU, so any feedback would be great!
> 
> btw, if you didn't know, blue sonder is an au created by @chewwypepsicola @clambuoyance @takomakiii and @pupafobe on twitter. so many talented artists and authors have contributed to this awesome au, so be sure to check it out!
> 
> also if this flops i might just phase out of existence so um,,, 😀👍

Butterflies always seemed so beautiful. 

Delicate, vibrant, unique.

They fluttered without a care.

The overworld was soft compared to home.

* * *

Wilbur was fascinated with stars.

They’re not actually twinkling lights decorating the beautifully dark night sky, but actually exploding suns, thousands of light years away.

So many suns, so many planets, so many solar systems and so many species that are gone.

And the only remnant left of them can be compared to the dazzle of a firefly.

Wilbur thought of Techno a lot like a star. They always seemed so small and insignificant until you realized it was quite the opposite. He met Techno when they were barely old enough to be considered viable for the throne:

Chromatic disfiguration slowly fit Wilbur back together as he rematerialized back into the safer depths of hell when he realized he had a companion tagging along- a pink haired brat clutching onto Wilbur’s waist, a nasty snarl etched onto his face. 

Wilbur, disgusted and startled, smashed his hand against the brat’s face to force him off. However, stubbornly so, the brat held on, only moving to quickly reach for his knife. 

“Shove off, brat!” Wilbur exclaimed.

“Give me back my gold, nerd!”

Ah… yes. Wilbur forgot that this was actually the brat he just nabbed a sack of gold from, mentioned sack resting snugly in the crevice of his arm.

“Beat it kid. You’re not even tall enough to put that knife to my heart, much less my throat.” Wilbur scoffed and teasingly held up the pouch of gold as high as he could reach.

The kid narrowed his eyes, unhooked his arm from Wilbur’s waist, and promptly sucker-punched him in the stomach. Ugh… dealing with freshly-robbed kids is such a pain.

Wilbur doubled-down—because _ouch_ — and a foot slammed against his chest, launching him to the ground. 

The universe is wide and full of variety. 

It’s made up of hundreds of thousands of solar systems that consist of planets and asteroids and moons and their own laws of science and fiction to govern them. It’s made up of hundreds and thousands of possibilities and outcomes for it’s creations and their futures.

But pinned down by the kid, a gleaming knife to his throat, Wilbur thought that perhaps this was the worst outcome possible.

“Hand it back over.” the brat growled. 

Examining his situation again, Wilbur was speechless. Could he teleport away? No, he was way too tired to activate his ability on himself. Fight back? Obviously this brat held higher ground, the knife to his throat and all that. 

Although… with the knife barely scraping the skin of his neck, Wilbur stiffened and focused on that feeling, willing for the object to disappear in a mess of red and blue glitches.

The brat too, stiffened (in awe, Wilbur presumed), as the weapon simply fizzled out of his grasp.

But instead of using that stunned moment to push off the brat and book it, Wilbur still lay there awed at himself as well. Now, a pair of roughened hands gripped at his neck instead. He would’ve flicked his ear in annoyance if it wasn’t for the fact his windpipe was being single handedly crushed by this toddler.

“Where did you do to my knife?”

Wilbur grinned devilishly, trying his best to shrug in faux innocence. In truth, he has no idea where he sent that motherfucker. It was probably already 6 feet under Hell’s bedrock floor, long lost to the void.

The brat groaned, “Do you have any idea how valuable that thing was? Didn’t you see all the intricate inscriptions?”

He seriously could not believe this kid’s audacity.

“Hey,” Wilbur grunted. “You pitted said knife to my neck and you expect me to worry about the fucking inscriptions?”

“Ugh, just give me back my gold and let this interaction be done with.” Right, Wilbur currently held the pouch in a death-grip.

“No way kid. Why don’t you just give up and go bother some other poor demon that has the displeasure of coming across you?”

“Ever heard of the Sunk Cost Fallacy? My gold and knife are both gone, I might as well either dedicate to this garbage and spare your life, or just end you right here.” The brat smiled, showing off his sharpened canines. “Just know that your ransacked corpse will be making up for my losses.”

A bead of sweat formed at the back of Wilbur’s neck. He brought his hands above his head as a sign of truce before sighing.

“Hey now. Let’s negotiate.”

The brat blinked. “Mmm… how about n-”

“I’ll give you back your gold and I owe you a new knife. Inscriptions and everything.”

“And what would you want in return?”

Wilbur smiled his best fake-genuine smile. “Just your company is enough.”

Apparently Wilbur’s fake-genuine smile still needed some work judging from the outright disgusted face the brat was pulling.

“Look,” Wilbur started. “It seems like we’re both loners. And since we’re both pretty young, don’t you think it’s best to stay together? Power in numbers, y’know”

“All demons have to learn to survive alone.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “But didn’t you just get outplayed by a fellow demon? Much less,” damn this hurt to say- “a fellow kid?”

By now, Wilbur definitely thought no brat could ever look quite as disgusted as the one in front of him did right now. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that by embarrassing himself and punching down his ego, the brat had loosened his grip on neck. Just a little more and then he’d be home-free with his newly acquired pouch of gold, ready to never have to even think about this brat again-

“Alright.”

W-what?  
He… actually accepted…?

The brat looked at him thoughtfully, yet sternly. His nether-red eyes pierced through his gaze. “Perhaps you’re right. Nothing wrong with trying out a new perspective of life if it’s gonna be as short as ours.”

He released his hands from Wilbur’s throat, instead grabbing his arm to pull him up. Dizzy, this made Wilbur’s slow brain process this information even slower.

“Wait, really?” he finally uttered, looking like a complete fool and buffoon.

The brat rolled his eyes and grabbed Wilbur's hand for a shake.

“Techno.”

Wilbur blinked dumbly.

“My name.” The brat- Techno, pointed out.

Getting back to the present, Wilbur returned Techno’s firm grip.

“Wilbur.” he replied.

Techno lifted his other hand up, expectantly.

“Gold.”

Wilbur huffed, tail flicking in annoyance. “What, we’re companions now and all you care for is your profit?”

“Obviously, nerd. We’re going to the closest blacksmith as soon as possible and you are going to buy me a new weapon. Inscriptions and everything.”

How poetic is it that even the largest of suns, golden light culminating as one massive being at the center of their systems, can only be seen as a tiny speck in the infinite space and darkness of the universe?

And how poetic is it that Wilbur Soot just so happened to be the demon that robbed that one particular boy, out of all of the demons to ever exist in Hell?

And how even more unfortunately, tragically, poetic is it that he has been specifically relegated to playing babysitter to that one particular boy king, in this one particular world, in this godforsaken one particular universe?

Wilbur Soot is perhaps one of the most unluckiest beings to grace the universe with his presence.  


* * *

Butterflies all seemed so beautiful.

But he quickly realized they are not unique.

He crushed it between calloused fingers, turning the vivid blue into a nether red.

Delicate.

Vibrant.

Looking at the kaleidoscope of blue butterflies around him, he came to the conclusion that the only way to fix it was to destroy it.


	2. Goddless Offerings

If Dream was anything, he was a showman.

Dreams cannot be attained simply by blending in and hoping for others to give you their time of day. If you wanted something fulfilled, you had to step out and grab it yourself. These were facts Dream discerned from his first few moments of living, the first few moments he stepped out of the mist and fog and named himself after what he and every other creature sought to achieve so unabashedly so. And when he fought, he fought with that proposed, grand ambition. Unique battle strategies that incorporated his natural agility and quick-thinking, as well as his deceitful shape-shifting abilities, sky-rocketed the boy into popularity within certain combat circles. 

So when he battled the King he made sure he made it a spectacle.

Arranged at the throne, spectators were captivated, for once their concerns were not of the blinding heaps of treasures littered behind the royal seat, but rather enraptured on the fight in front of them.

Dream had engineered a flawless strategy – mid-duel might he add – that ensured one entertaining show for the many onlookers that crowded around the two, the onlookers that relentlessly screamed for blood to be cascaded into – to be erupted from – to be flooded into the territory they fought in.

Dream, shield held up high, delicately flitted around the King as each sword swing sliced at the dust trail he left behind him. He stopped briefly behind his opponent, tail flicking indecisively before roughly throwing up his shield, pushing himself off the ground to land a spinning roundhouse kick in his opponent’s face.

The voices demanded it.

The cheers commanded it.

He grabbed the “King’s” neck. Squeezed tightly, his sharp nails slowly coming into contact with the nape of their neck.

“Surrender,” Dream drawled, “Or die.”

The clamor of the crowd became even more cacophonous. Their hollers echoed off the steep cliffs and rocky terrain that surrounded them, their stamping rumbling the loose soil beneath their soot-stained feet, their energy, their _bloodlust_ exuding, emanating, and escaping from their bodies encouraging for more.

The King snarled in response.

If Dream was anything, he was a showman.

It was quite exhilarating: scrutinizing the way the blood of a king trickled down his fingers and stained the in-betweens of his nails. 

It was quite exhilarating: comprehending that he was a king-slayer, that he would be the next to take the throne, be the next to take away those pitiable, worthless desires of those under him, that his aspiration now was to stay on the blood-stained seat standing tantalizing above him.

He raised his head towards it, as if it emitted a holy energy calling out, just for him to sit on that throne.

Another boy, one with red horns that contrasted his tangled black hair, wriggled his way out of the crowd of demons and hurriedly ran to accompany Dream.

Climbing the stairs, Dream only looked ahead.

Climbing each stair, Dream felt a new weight pressed into his chest.

Climbing one step at a time, Dream heard new voices clambering into his head.

Climbing the stairs, Dream only looked ahead.

The demons below him did not dare to interfere as the two strongest demons in Hell stepped onto the platform that carried the throne.

No one intervened as Dream took his new place as the rightful owner of the crown.

Looking down upon his new subjects, Dream flashed his signature deadly smirk.

“Everyone,” He raised his voice, “it’s finally time for a new era.”

It wouldn’t be too long before more blood was shed to fulfill the thirst of the crowd.

It would never be too long before the voices would beg, would cry for more, for his claws to break open the rough skin of weak hellbeasts and use their insides to be the sacred rain that would satiate their drought.

For his claws to grip the hearts of their sacrifices and hollow them out to ensure that their repulsive pagan body returned to the sacrilegious dirt from whence they were birthed from.

For his claws to drip sinful crimson to ensure that no blasphemous soul was left lingering to turn in their desecrated mass of sod they called a grave.

The voices demanded it.

The jeers commanded it.

And Dream… Dream was a showman.

It wouldn’t be too long before the crown fell into new hands.

Crimson painted the vibrant lime of his horns, the hem of his cloak, the irises of his eyes. 

He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t afford it.

Crimson eyes burned into the lime of his own– crimson eyes and crimson blood mixing into one: burning and burning and burning and taking his flesh with the sounds of sweet sizzles and smell of smoldering skin and sight of soft smoke.

Dream’s screams were smothered by the overwhelming voices, calling, screaming, pointing, laughing, **RINGING, PULSATING, RESONATING–**

There was a certain fact Dream never realized from when he first came out of the mist:

Butterflies are so very easily crushed within the palm of another person.

And mangled butterflies no longer fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! thank you for all the support on the first chapter :3   
> i'm not quite too proud of this chapter, it's a bit too short for my liking and i have like no say in the canon of the blue sonder au so this could be completely incorrect but these are just my thoughts.  
> either way i hope you enjoy!


End file.
